Blood of a Broken Man
by EllieNoble
Summary: Ashton Tyler isn't sure what to make of the metal-armed vagrant holding her hostage in her own home. He's more than willing to kill her if she doesn't cooperate–but how is she supposed to bring his memories back?
1. Chapter 1

_The soldier took the weapon placed in his hands and fired. The grenade hit the target's shield and exploded on impact, sending the man flying over the side of the bridge with bone-breaking force. Immediately, the soldier exchanged the grenade launcher for a MAR rifle, and stepped to the concrete barrier. He followed the man's trajectory with his eyes–he was crashing into a tour bus. The soldier took aim and fired into the bus, spraying bullets into the metal frame like confetti._

_The crack of gunfire, a shattering noise–he ducked behind the concrete barrier, tugging his now-useless goggles off his face. He hesitated for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust to the light, and then he was on his feet, tearing the earth apart with metal and fire._

April 8th, 2014, 1:18 PM

The scream of the trauma alarm shattered the air, freezing muscles and tightening nerves. Immediately following it was the eerily calm voice over the PA, which spoke two words.

"Code Orange."

Ashton Tyler looked up, her head moving in sync with the half-dozen Med-Star Hospital interns in the room. Their instructor, Dr. David Mason, had just finished performing a demonstration of measuring blood pressure and heart rate. Ashton, who had been acting as the assistant instructor, was about to repeat the process on another student when the message had blared out of the PA. Her hand was frozen in place, clutching the bulb-like extension of the sphygmomanometer. Everyone had lapsed into a stunned silence, listening, looking for guidance.

'All available operating rooms must be cleared immediately,' the PA continued, 'There are over a dozen casualties; injuries include bullet wounds, severe lacerations, bleeding, and third-degree burns. Paramedics are en route to the ER, but are being slowed by heavy gunfire. Arrival is in approximately twelve minutes.'

A panicked murmur rippled through the interns. _Gunfire._ Mason's eyes widened.

'What do we do, sir?' Ashton inquired, barely heard above the murmuring of the others.

'Get all personnel from other wards down into the ER, now. We'll need as many operating and treatment rooms open as soon as possible, with enough staff for each.' His orders were given out with military-like crispness.

'Right away, sir.' Ashton stepped out into the hallway, keeping to the right to avoid any oncoming traffic. Her hurried pace brought her to the ER–already a chaotic blur of lights, colors, and sounds. Policemen and hospital personnel tried to keep order as frightened civilians–relatives or friends of the injured–milled about like clothing tossed around in a washing machine. Bypassing most of the crowd, Ashton slipped into the trauma area. A muffled shout–there was a gurney being wheeled right towards her. _Oh, God. _Ashton thought, not swearing. _It's a child!_

She couldn't have been more than twelve at least. She was whimpering feebly and moving about; a paramedic had his hand firmly on her upper arm as blood gushed from her chest area.

'Bullet wound just below the left rib!' The paramedic had to shout to be heard about the cacophony. 'Take her, quickly! There's more coming–'

Ashton reached out and grasped the cart rail with clammy fingers. Suddenly, she realized that there were three or four other pairs of hands holding on as well–the rest of the trauma team. She stared across into the face of their on-site trauma surgeon, Dr. Cole. The girl was still moaning and struggling.

Calmly, he assessed the situation and gave each of them their respective assignments. Ashton injected sedative into the little girl's wrist; she stopped thrashing and became completely still. Meanwhile, the other assistants had secured the airway, checked for breathing, and the ER technician was rattling off a set of vitals. Dr. Cole thinned his lips grimly.

'Not good. Ashton, get me three units of O-negative blood. Run them in as soon as possible.'

A breathless nod, and Ashton departed to do as he asked, muttering frantic prayers to herself. This girl was too young. The way the blood had stood out against her pale skin…

Minutes later, Ashton had procured the blood and it was pumping steadily into the girl's veins. They were rushing into the operating room, away from the confusion of the ER and into a tomb-like silence. Ashton poured brown antiseptic over the injured area, and Dr. Cole began cutting.

As he opened her up, he asked the technician again for vitals. The girl's blood pressure had improved only marginally since the blood infusion. Ashton kept her eyes glued to the patient's torso. Dark blood coughed out of the wound, spilling onto Dr. Cole's gloved fingers. Someone cleaned away the wound with a surgical sponge, turning it scarlet in seconds.

Precious moments passed as Dr. Cole continued to cut and cauterize, searching for the source of the hemorrhage. Ashton kept praying inwardly–_Don't let her die. Don't take her, don't let her die. _Her thoughts drifted to the panicked family members that were waiting, hoping, dreading the outcome. She ached for them…

There was a collective gasp as the full extent of the girl's injury was revealed. Her liver had been completely shattered; one look told Ashton that it wasn't even partially salvageable.

'We'll have to do a transplant.' Dr. Cole announced.

'Sir, we might not have time.' the technician informed him. 'Her blood pressure's dropping rapidly–' Dr. Cole jerked his gaze up to the anesthesia monitor.

'Pulse!' he snapped. Ashton felt for one, couldn't find it. Lead had invaded her insides and sat heavily in her stomach. _Don't let her die. _she pleaded again.

'Should I start compressions, sir?' she asked quietly.

At Dr. Cole's assent, Ashton removed the surgical drapes and began to pound on the little girl's chest. Five minutes…ten minutes…fifteen.

'Blood pressure thirty over zero.' the technician warned. Too low. Ashton's hand faltered for a fraction of a second. She swallowed hard, pressing the patient's chest down, up, down, up, down…

Then, it was over. The technician was gently pulling her hands away from the little girl.

'It's too late.' he whispered hoarsely. Ashton distantly heard Dr. Cole pronouncing the patient's death…they were wheeling the body out to the morgue. She forced herself to follow, eventually breaking off from the others and ducking into the disinfection room. Stripping

off her blood-stained surgical gloves, she tossed them vehemently into the trash bin and proceeded to clean her hands.

_It's too late._

There was nothing they could have done.

'I'll notify the family.' she volunteered, her voice thick. There was no objection. Ashton tried to clean up her appearance a little, splashing her face with cold water and patting down any stray hairs with dampened palms. This was the part she had to play: the calm, unflappable nurse, sympathetic but clearly in control. She stiffened her spine, inhaled deeply, and headed towards the elevator.

Ashton strode into the waiting room, the firm set of her mouth and her straight back exuding a quiet confidence. She paused, her eyes roving the room until she found who she was looking for. The small family of three–mother, father and a son around four years old–stood up as the nurse approached them, anxiety carving deep lines into the parents' faces. The short conversation that ensued was brief and hushed.

'I'm Ashton Tyler. And you are…?'

The parents introduced themselves and the child, who hid behind his mother and stared at the tall brunette. The Ashton twisted her hands together nervously, but caught herself.

'I'm so sorry for your loss…' she began, clearing her throat as her voice threatened to break. Carefully, gently, she broke the news to them, and then gestured back towards the door she had entered through. 'You're welcome to stay while we examine her.'

The mother was in tears, the father on the verge, the son tugging on each of his parents in turn and pleading to be held. The mother was shaking her head, gesturing to the boy; she didn't want him to see the body.

She guided the father away towards the morgue, unable to dispel the immense guilt that weighed down her heart. It had barely been a few hours since the crisis had been announced, and already three people, besides the girl, had died.

April 9, 2014, 6:27 AM

Ashton came to work the next morning after snatching three or four hours of sleep; she'd been taking care of post-op patients in the ICU until almost midnight. On her way past the anesthesia lounge, she noticed a large group of hospital staff huddled in front of the wall-mounted TV. Curious, she joined them; no one noticed her presence.

It was a breaking news report of some kind; a shaky, low-resolution video, clearly taken from a smartphone, showed a tour bus tipped on its side. There were people running everywhere, occasionally blocking the camera–someone burst out of the end of the bus, showering glass everywhere. Instantly, there was the rapid report of gunfire, dulled by the weak camera speakers to a fuzzy snapping sound. The figure got to its feet, holding something in front of itself–

The video cut off, and the screen panned to an attractive female newscaster, who began to reel off information regarding the clip. Unwilling to risk shaving time off her work hours, Ashton left the lounge, the familiar sensation of dread in her gut.

As she continued to perform her daily rounds, she found it increasingly difficult to focus. There were too many unanswered questions churning in her mind.

April 9th, 2014, 11:37 AM

It began with the noise–a painful, undulating throb that shook the walls of the hospital. Ashton, in the midst of a follow-up surgery, felt the floor tremble slightly beneath her feet. _An earthquake? _she wondered, wincing as the pulsing grew louder. Dr. Cole had obviously noticed also–he told her, without looking up, to go find out what was happening. Ashton gave a small 'Yes, sir' and departed. As soon as she was out of the OR, she stripped off her dirty surgical gown and gloves and raced towards the ICU. Apparently, others had the same idea. A handful of nurses and doctors were clustered around the window, craning their necks upwards like storks. Just as Ashton reached them, a shadow crossed the sky–the throbbing was worse now–there was a sharp intake of breath and a few mumbled, frightened curses. She looked out the window.

It was huge. The massive floating aircraft slowly drifted over them, its engines rending the air, sending shockwaves of sound through the surrounding buildings.

'What are they?' someone breathed. _They? _Ashton blinked, momentarily confused, then directed her gaze out over the Potomac river. _There are three of them._

She needed to get back to Dr. Cole; reluctantly, she dragged her eyes away from the aircraft, but not before noting that there was anti-aircraft weaponry studding their hulls.

'Sir, I'm not quite sure what's going on.' she said frankly, back in the OR. She described the aircraft as best as she could, as Dr. Cole's expression flickered between disbelief and confusion. His hand was poised above the patient's open abdomen, the surgery driven from his mind for a moment. Then, he turned back to his work, muttering vehemently under his breath.

It wasn't until later that they heard the explosions.

April 9th, 2014, 12:36 PM

_The soldier dove smoothly into the water, staring into a endless depth of murky blue-green. He could feel the bones in his dislocated shoulder grinding against one another; he gritted his teeth against the pain._

_There he was–the man on the bridge–but he was sinking fast. Too fast. The man's eyelids were shut, arms limp and useless. Blood leaked from his wounds in thin, feathery strands, dissipating rapidly._

_The soldier swam closer with a few powerful strokes; reaching out with his metal hand, he grasped the man's collar and pulled. His lungs were craving oxygen–he still had to make it to the surface. His shoulder burned…darkness clouded his vision as his senses were overwhelmed with agony. He kept moving, swimming upwards with what little strength he had left, metal knuckles clasped tight to his burden._

_Then, they broke the surface. Struggling to keep the man's head above the water, he kicked and paddled furiously; it seemed an eternity before his feet touched solid ground._

_Once he could stand, he dragged the man the rest of the way to shore. Dropping him loosely onto the damp sand, the soldier wavered, eyes glued to the man's face. Was he breathing?_

_The man coughed feebly, water dribbling out of his mouth. Satisfied, the soldier turned to leave. His steps were unbalanced and fragile…_

April 9th, 2014, 1:14 PM

_Natasha peered out across the water as the helicopter cruised over the Potomac. The wind from the chopper blades whipped her hair around her face, obscuring her view. Brushing red strands out of her mouth and eyes, she squinted down at the small islet just beneath them._

'_Anything yet?' yelled Sam. Natasha shook her head._

'_No–' She was about to say more, but stopped. 'Fury, take us lower!' she shouted into the com._

_The chopper's elevation decreased. The beach of the islet came closer into view–a prone figure was sprawled across the sand. A thrill shuddered through her spine. 'I think I see him! Right on your 3:00.'_

_The seatbelt dug into her neck as the helicopter turned and lowered abruptly. Yes, that was him. The red, white and blue of his uniform was unmistakable–though, she noticed with alarm, there was much more red. Dark red._

'_Is he alive?' Sam demanded._

_Her breath caught for a moment. 'I-I'm not sure. He's not moving, and there's a lot of blood…'_

_Sam's fervent curse could be heard above the noise of the chopper blades._

April 9th, 2014, 1:37 PM

Ashton flinched inadvertently as the trauma alarm gave a prolonged shriek. That was the seventh time in the last 48 hours…she hauled herself to her feet, trying to quell the less-than-gracious thoughts running through her head. She'd just gotten out of the OR after assisting another lengthy, difficult surgery. Combined with sleep deprivation and the fact that the mysterious aircraft had been exploding over their heads for the past twenty minutes, the events of the past few hours had taken a toll on her stamina.

Stepping out into the hall, she noted that there was an unusual commotion surrounding this particular patient–there were several nurses and doctors lining the walls. Who was that they were rolling in?

'It's…no. It couldn't be.' breathed a nurse behind her.

'Clear the halls please–' came the paramedic's irritated command. As Ashton strode forward to relive the paramedics of their charge, a few of the hospital personnel reluctantly began to filter out. Dr. Cole materialized beside her, and the rest of the trauma team arrived mere seconds later. The trauma patient was a man in his late twenties, blonde, incredibly well-muscled. There were two gaping holes in his abdomen, oozing blood, as well as a deep gash in his shoulder that penetrated to the bone. The paleness of his skin and rapid pulse indicated that he'd already gone into shock, but his wounds were already partially healed over. Ashton knitted her brows in confusion.

'Two bullets to the lower back, one to the thigh, and a lacerated shoulder. It'd been over an hour before we finally got to him.' the paramedic listed.

'How is he still alive?' the technician marveled, as they wheeled the cart towards the OR.

'I'm still missing something.' Ashton confessed. 'Who is this guy?'

'Oh, didn't you know?' grunted Dr. Cole. 'He's Captain America.'

April 9th, 2014, 8:24 PM

Ashton jerked her head up, grimacing at the sudden pain in her neck. She'd almost nodded off…again. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to focus on watching the still form of Steve Rogers, which was a little bit entertaining in itself. He wasn't going to wake up for a while yet, but she couldn't afford to fall asleep; she was in charge of monitoring him post-op.

A small sigh escaped her lips at the memory of the last few hours. The surgery had been a nightmare–successful, but nevertheless, a nightmare. The shoulder had been easy enough; a few stitches and the job was done. The bullet wounds were another story. The legendary 'super soldier serum', while keeping Rogers alive long enough to get into surgery, had also caused his body to heal _around _the bullets, which had embedded themselves in his viscera. The trauma team had been forced to re-open the injuries in order to get at the bullets and remove them–a messy process that no one was eager to repeat.

Ashton shifted her position and tried propping her chin up on her fist; this quickly became uncomfortable, so she folded her arms instead. _Just keep your eyes open until they tell you to leave._

'…you don't understand, I'm his friend. ' The voice echoed from the hallway outside the ICU. Ashton perked up slightly; that twangy and accented baritone was unmistakable. _What's he doing here? _she mused.

'I understand completely, Mr. Wilson. However, I must repeat that no one is allowed to visit him right now.' That was the charge nurse, Fontaine, speaking. By _him_, Ashton assumed she meant Captain Rogers; hospital security had been tightened ever since he came. Curious, she got to her feet and made her way towards the entrance of the ICU.

'Is there a problem, ma'am?' she inquired, quelling a smile as Sam Wilson twitched slightly at her presence. Fontaine stared down her nose at Ashton.

'Aren't you supposed to be watching the patient?' she replied, in clipped tones.

'Yes, but–'

'Then kindly continue.' She turned away and continued talking to Sam, who was staring at Ashton, recognition dawning in his eyes. 'As I was saying, I shall notify you as soon as we're accepting visitors–'

'Excuse me, Nurse Fontaine, but I know this man personally and can vouch for his behavior.' Ashton said coolly. 'I can assure you he means no harm to _any_ of the ICU residents.' She made eye contact with Sam. 'Right this way.'

Sam smirked a little as the charge nurse reluctantly let him pass. 'Thanks.' he murmured to her. Ashton responded with the obligatory 'you're welcome', accidentally letting some of her exhaustion slip into her words. They made their way over to where Steve was sleeping.

'I haven't seen you since–' Sam began.

'Riley.' Ashton cut him off hastily. 'I know. I remember.'

They'd arrived at Steve's bedside, Ashton making no further attempt at conversation. Sensing her extreme discomfort, Sam switched topics:

'How is he?' He nodded towards Steve.

'He'll live.' She sounded relieved. 'It was a tough procedure, but he came out alright.'

'Ah. Good.'

There were several awkward minutes of silence, during which Ashton reseated herself by the bed. Sam couldn't help but notice how much she'd changed…_Riley's kid sister, all grown up_.

'Do you know what happened?' Ashton's question took him by surprise at first. 'You know, who tried to kill him?'

'What? Oh…' Sam chewed his lip for a second. 'I'm not sure.' That wasn't completely true, of course, but he wasn't certain how much to tell her.

The only sound was the hum of the medical equipment.

'Ashton?' Dr. Cole strode into the ICU, startling them both. 'Your shift's over.' he told her, completely ignoring Sam's presence.

'Thanks.' Ashton mumbled, getting to her feet. She hesitated a few seconds, uncertain, before turning and giving Sam a brief hug. It felt strange, after not doing it for so long. 'See you around.'

'Nice to see you too, Ash.' he replied softly.

He watched her until she'd turned a corner and was out of sight.


	2. Chapter 2

When the soldier had first wandered away from the water, the only coherent thoughts remaining in his head were: (1. the man on the bridge was _not _dead, and (2. his own injuries needed attention. Attention that he could not give.

They should have found him by now, he realized; his handlers were usually waiting for him right after finishing a mission. But–the thought brought a sudden onslaught of panic–he'd failed this mission. The man was still alive. If They did find him…his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. He'd never failed before. They would not be pleased.

_But you need help. _The majority of him argued. _You cannot do it yourself. _

His terror was rapidly being beat down by a more deeply engraved instinct–the certainty that his survival rested in Their hands. There was no other option.

The soldier knew where to go; the only difficulty was getting there unnoticed. Before making any attempt to track down his handlers, he would have to change his appearance. Procuring clothing was easy enough–however, he spent several minutes pulling on the baggy sweat jacket over his gear, his dislocated shoulder protesting at every movement. A hat shoved low on his forehead completed the feeble disguise.

Shoving his hands deep into the jacket pockets, the soldier stepped into the open, keeping his eyes on the ground. The oncoming pedestrians were careful to avoid physical contact, going about their business like he didn't exist. He had no objection.

Slowly, the sun drifted below the skyline, casting long shadows over everything. Streetlights quietly clicked on as the city sank into a grey twilight; there were fewer people on the sidewalks. The soldier trudged on, all independent thought obscured by a single purpose.

The sun was almost gone when he saw it; the large, imposing building glared at him from across a four-way intersection. In order to get there, he'd have to cross the road…casually, he strode onto the asphalt, uncaring as an angry driver honked and made a rude gesture at him. Once on the other side, he detoured down the side of the building and around the back, where there was an entrance that only his handlers used. The door opened easily, which was strange–there should have been some form of security. There was a slowly-building sense of foreboding as the soldier slipped inside and shut the door behind him.

It was empty. Every chamber stood still and cold. Shoving the barred gates aside, he entered the vault where he was normally returned to after an assignment; there was no one. Just the black machine, surrounded by a few blank monitors. No armed guards, no people in white coats. The entire place was dead.

Confusion pounded him in the chest. This didn't make sense. They were supposed to be here. He had nowhere else to go–without them, what was he supposed to do?

The answer: wait. They would come. They always did. Even when he'd tried to run, they always found him, brought him back–

Pain shattered his skull (or was it the memory of pain…?).

_He was sitting in the chair, as the machine held his head tightly in its clammy hands, blocking his vision so he could only see out of one eye…there was something cold and hard in his mouth–_

The fear that he'd pushed down for so long erupted to the surface, paralyzing, drowning him, ripping the air from his lungs. Nausea bubbled in his stomach. The soldier fell to his knees, cringing, an animal-like moan escaping his lips. _What was he supposed to do? _His mind had been torn in two; should he wait or leave…he didn't know, couldn't think anymore. He was a ship with no anchor, unstable, aimless.

Then, something inside him snapped. Hatred–the only thing strong enough to overwhelm his fear–flooded into every nerve like acid into an open wound. He was on his feet again, powerful in his rage. Extending his left hand, he grasped one of the metal arms of the machine and bent it towards him until it splintered and broke off entirely. He did the same to the other arm; it clanged as it hit the floor. He became consumed with a savage pleasure.

_Crack!_ He'd split the chair of the machine with a well-placed kick. _Crash! _It went spinning across the floor and into the opposite wall. He continued to completely demolish any piece of equipment he could find–smashing in the monitor screens with his fist and pulling out the circuitry, sending glass shards skittering across the concrete floor, ripping apart what remained of the machine and scattering it. He was utterly blind to his surroundings, intent only on destroying everything that had ever been used to hurt him.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the anger vanished, leaving him cold and weak. The soldier sank wearily to the floor, surrounded by skeletons of machinery. His moods were a pendulum, swinging back and forth between terror and hatred. Both sapped him of energy, drained him of his resolve. He couldn't last long like this…he needed something–something to stabilize him…

He noted the syringes lying on the floor a few feet away (he must have spilled them during his rampage; most of them were shattered), and a memory rose unbidden to his mind. Those were what his handlers used whenever he became too violent under their watch. Yes, that's what he needed…an intense craving licked at his insides as he reached out for one. Gingerly rolling up his right sleeve, he forced himself to straighten out his dislocated arm. Then, he stabbed the needle into the pale flesh right at the joint, pressing down on the bulb.

He could feel it flowing, icy cold, into his veins, slowing his heartbeat, compelling his limbs to stop trembling, banishing any trace of fear or anger. After a few seconds, he removed the needle and tossed it away, carefully getting to his feet.

Yes…this was much better.

It was beginning to rain as he left the building; the air smelled strongly of musty asphalt and smoke, and the sun had set long ago. It didn't bother him; he'd been forced to complete missions in much worse conditions. He took a deep breath, dampness coating his tongue. For the moment, the stabbing pain in his dislocated shoulder had eased–however, he wasn't sure how long the relief would last, and he had only been able to salvage three of the syringes. Hands still deep in his pockets, hat brim shadowing his face, he scanned the area for anything that might give him a clue as to where to find help…

Then, the headlights of an oncoming car lit up all the street signs like neon; in the brief flash of color, the soldier managed to pick out a white H on a blue background, above the words 'HOSPITAL'. Below that ran 'TRAUMA CENTER'. That's where he would go–with a determined, firm stride, he turned to the left and began walking the direction the sign indicated.

He was grateful for the rain; it muffled the sound of his footsteps. Just because They hadn't been at the vault didn't mean They weren't looking for him…how long could he keep up this charade?

And was the man on the bridge still alive?

—

April 9th, 2014, 8:57 PM

Ashton backed her car out of the 'Staff Only' parking space, craning her neck to see behind her. No one in her way: good. Just as she'd finished pulling out, she turned her head once more towards the windshield–

There was a man standing on the sidewalk, eerily lit up by the glow of her headlights. A homeless wanderer, judging by his shabby appearance and dark, uncut hair. He was tense, holding himself stiffly like a startled deer.

Their eyes met. A flash of understanding, curiosity–she couldn't tell. But something had changed in his expression.

Then, he dipped his head so that she couldn't see his face, and began walking away. Puzzled, Ashton watched him for a few more seconds, then decided that it was nothing, just a random drifter. She slowly eased the car out of the parking lot, turned west, and headed towards home.

That night, she managed to sleep for a few hours. Then, at 4:00 AM, the buzz of her cellphone jolted her into gritty wakefulness: one of the trauma patients was going critical and they needed her help. Ashton was certain that she broke the speed limit all the way to the hospital, but it didn't matter anyway; they were unable to save him. He was twenty-seven years old.

_Just like Riley. _

The next 73 hours were a bloody, disorienting haze. After the young man's death, Ashton began to see the process more and more often. The skin would stretch tightly over the bones, cheeks sunken and sallow. The eyes would become vacant, glassy. Even if the person had been sedated, even in she could still feel the warmth of their blood through her gloves, it was clear that the human flesh no longer held _life_; it was just a shell. An empty, leaden shell. She removed bullets, stitched up torsos, repaired lungs, splinted broken bones, assisted amputation procedures. Often, she wouldn't get home until past midnight. After catching four or five hours of trouble sleep, she'd wake up, her eyes heavy and rough like sandpaper, only to be thrown back into the frantic routine.

The only thing that distinguished one day from the next were her short visits to the ICU, where Sam would be patiently waiting by Steve's bedside, dark brow wrinkled in anxiety. Sometimes, he'd have music playing on his iPhone–Marvin Gaye, Harry James, Billie Holiday. The two of them would chat for a few minutes, usually about trivial subjects, until Ashton got called off to more important things. What frustrated her the most was that Sam consciously avoided discussing 'The Catastrophe', even though it was clear that he'd been heavily involved. Whenever she'd try to bring it up, he'd smoothly change the subject. She realized with a pang of regret that things just hadn't completely healed between them yet. Even now, their conversations felt forced, born out of Ashton's desperation for a distraction from the suffering around her.

April 13, 2014, 1:31 PM

Ashton glanced at her watch as she paced towards the ICU. Maybe, just maybe she could talk to Sam for a few minutes before Dr. Cole or Dr. Mason needed her again. This time, she was determined to ask him outright what happened on April 8th, and why he didn't want to talk about it. She hung a left, increased her speed for the last few yards, and pushed the heavy door open. Steve's bed was on the far left…yes, that was Sam alright. And he was talking to someone…

She stopped dead in her tracks when she reached them. 'You…you're awake!'

Steve turned his gaze on her. His face reminded her of something from Phantom of the Opera; one side was almost normal, the other a puffy, swollen mass of flesh, a massive bruise discoloring the area beneath his right eye. 'You sound surprised.' He croaked, voice hoarse from disuse.

'You've been drifting in and out of consciousness for a few days.' Ashton explained. 'We were worried, at first–we thought there might be complications because of your injuries–but it turned out to be okay. Your body temporarily shut down so you could heal faster.' She was talking too fast, she knew. 'So…how are you feeling?'

A wry grin flashed across Steve's face. 'I've been better.' he admitted.

'Yeah, no kidding.' Sam agreed. There was silence for a few seconds, and Ashton noticed Steve and Sam exchange glances. She got the message: they wanted to talk, _alone_.

'Well, just keep resting. If all goes well, you should be released in a few days.' She flashed a smile, which both of them returned. Then, she pivoted on her heel to leave–

'What was your name again?' She turned to look at Steve as he said this.

'Ashton.' she replied, automatically. 'Ashton Tyler. I'm one of the trauma nurses.' For a brief moment, she felt the sudden urge to salute and stand at attention. Instead, she excused herself by saying 'I'll let you two catch up', and then hastily departed. Part of her burned with irritation–_what happened that was so important?_ The two of them obviously knew who killed all these people, _tried to kill Captain America. _Was the culprit still on the loose? The news reports had been maddeningly inconclusive. The most reliable source for information was lying in that bed, and he wasn't saying anything.

The other, gentler half was merely relieved that Steve had finally woken up.

The soldier continued to watch and wait from a distance. The nurse in the parking lot–who he found out was called Ashton–was at the hospital over twelve hours a day, giving him plenty of opportunities to observe her behavior. He even followed her to her home once, memorizing the route effortlessly. She never noticed. He moved like a flicker in the corner of your vision; when you looked, he was gone, and you doubted that you had actually seen anything.

The pain of his injuries continued to increase as time passed, but this was easily remedied by an injection. However, he soon became aware of a relatively new sensation, one that the injection had no effect on: an empty, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't remember what this meant exactly, so he forced himself to ignore it.

April 13, 2014, 12:24 AM

Ashton was resting in the hospital break room, struggling to stay awake until the end of her shift. The three cups of coffee she had consumed throughout the day had not done much to boost her energy levels. She just needed to focus for a couple more hours, and then it would be over.

'Ashton?' She looked up into the concerned face of David Mason.

'Oh, Dr. Mason–do you need me? I'll be right there–' she began, standing up abruptly and forcing herself to look awake and alert.

'I want you to go home early.'

'What?' Her tired mind didn't quite comprehend what he was saying. David gave a fatherly, affectionate smile, picking up Ashton's purse and pressing it into her hands.

'I want you to go home, Ashton.' he repeated, gently but firmly. 'Take a few days off. You need the rest. You can start work again…' There was a pause as he considered a date. '…the 16th. How about that?'

'But–I–there's people who still need treatment. I can't afford to...' Her words tumbled out in a nervous rush, trailing off into silence as she met his eyes.

'I'll speak to Dr. Cole about this arrangement. Don't worry.'

'Yes, Dr. Mason.' she murmured, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

'That's my girl.'

He'd gotten a large head start; she wasn't home yet and wouldn't be for an hour at the most. Meanwhile, he discarded the ratty jacket and hat he'd been wearing for the past five days, preferring to make his appearance as threatening as possible. Although he couldn't claim to know much about people, he did know that fear was an incredible motivator. Clearly, the nurse didn't seem to think break-ins were a very large possibility; the lock on her front door had been simple and easy to open. Once inside, he'd refastened it as to not arouse her suspicion.

Then, the soldier settled down to wait, silent, shadowed in darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

April 13, 2014, 1:47 AM

On the drive home, Ashton was numb. Her emotions had been completely spent, too drained to experience despair, anger, or grief, leaving an empty hole somewhere between her heart and her stomach. The only thing she was aware of was overwhelming exhaustion.

It was already well past one in the morning, and she was practically falling asleep at the wheel. The only thing keeping her awake was the violent rocking of the car as the road grew steadily rougher and more unpaved. When was the last time she had eaten? The memory wouldn't come.

Staring into the pooling glow emitted by her vehicle's headlights, Ashton felt her teeth rattle as the car lurched slowly forward. Then, the sound of her phone ringing distracted her for a moment, and she looked away from the road to pick it up.

'Hello, Ashton Tyler speaking.'

'Hey, Ash! What's up?' The voice of her sister squawked loudly into her ear, and Ashton winced. The last person she wanted to talk to...

'I'm exhausted. Long day at work.' She replied, cushioning the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could drive with both hands. 'Why aren't you asleep, Vickie?'

Her sister seemed to ignore the question. 'Did you watch the news? The explosion in D.C.? You were near there, right?'

Ashton scoffed quietly, resting her forehead against the wheel in exasperation. 'Vickie, I work at the _hospital _in D.C.' she replied tersely. 'Of _course_ I know what happened. I've been in the operating room all day, trying to save people's lives.'

She relished Vickie's stunned silence–which lasted all of ten seconds.

'Oh. Well, did you hear about the...' More useless news about the crisis in D.C. Ashton felt a stab of irritation. The last thing she wanted to hear about was all the damage sustained in that city, how many people had died, or conspiracy theories about who had killed them in the first place. Vickie thrived on gossip; the more fantastic and farfetched, the better, as long as it didn't affect her personal life. It was sickening.

There it was–home. Ashton had chosen the small, two-bedroom house specifically because it was located so far from urbanized areas. She appreciated solitude as averse to the churning, disorienting noise and crowds of the city.

'...it was all dumped on the internet this afternoon! I've been reading it like crazy.' Vickie was beside herself with excitement. 'Ash? Are you still there?'

'Yeah, I'm here.' Ashton replied distantly, parking the car in front of the small porch.

'Good. Anyway, isn't that kinda creepy?'

Ashton stepped out of the car, her feet crunching on the gravel driveway. 'What's creepy? I'm sorry, Vickie, I'm not really paying attention.'

There was an exasperated sigh from the other end. 'SHIELD–you know, that super-secret intelligence agency thing–is actually an evil corporation called HYDRA!'

'I suppose that's...creepy.' Ashton said slowly, walking up the porch steps towards the front door. She fumbled with the door key as Vickie continued talking.

'I wonder if they're trying to, like, take over the world or something…'

'Well, if they are, I'm sure you'll be the first to find out.' She heard the door unlock with a _click_, and stepped inside, staring into the half-darkness of the empty kitchen. 'Well, on that happy note, I should probably go. It's getting really late.'

'Aw...' Vickie lamented. 'Okay, then. Bye!'

With a small sigh of relief, Ashton dropped keys on the counter and slipped her phone into her pocket. Stretching wearily, she glanced at the clock over the stove. It was two in the morning. The very thought made her sleepier.

Ashton headed towards her room, her footsteps strangely loud in the tomblike quietness of the house. Reaching the tiny living room, she groped along the wall for the light switch, and flicked it upwards.

What she saw made her blood petrify in her veins. Her lungs constricted, and she clutched the nearby countertop for support.

There was a man sitting, almost casually, on one of the chairs in the living room, gun clamped tightly in one hand. The muzzle was directed towards Ashton's head.

'Don't scream.' His voice was deep, gravely.

Ashton swallowed hard, and slowly raised her hands in the air. Half of her wanted to do just the opposite–scream, panic, run away–but then, she'd get shot. That thought kept her motionless for several seconds, eyes fixed on the weapon. Adrenaline throbbed in every nerve.

'I need your help.' The man growled, blue eyes narrowed.

'I-I, um...what?' Ashton stammered, surprised. She cursed inwardly; the words had come out more as a terrified squeak.

'I'm injured.' The reply was flat, toneless.

She glanced briefly at the man's right arm, which he was holding, crooked, against his stomach. A quick glance told of other injuries; raw, red abrasions marred his features, oozing blood, while deeper gashes were visible through rips in his shirt.

'Oh.' Still squeaky. Clearing her throat, she tried again: 'I'll see what I can do.'

Assuming that she was allowed to move now, she kept her arms above her head, and cautiously stepped forward.

The man still kept the gun aimed at her head. He then straightened up, stiffly, and a slight wince flashed across his face. His right shoulder was obviously out of socket and had swollen grotesquely.

'Okay.' she began, her voice trembling. 'You'll, um...need to take off your shirt.' This last phrase was muttered under her breath, but the man understood.

The process took a little longer than normal–he refused Ashton's help, and because of his injured shoulder, he had to do it with one hand. Also, his shirt was more of a military-grade vest that had to be unbuckled and unzipped before he could peel off the stiff material. Once he did so, however, Ashton breathed in sharply.

The shirt only had one sleeve–she'd thought that the metal was part of the clothing, like armor–but no, his arm was _made _of it. Thick, white scars grew like vines out from the part where the flesh fused with the metal, which started from his shoulder and continued all the way down to his fingers.

He cleared his throat impatiently, the guttural sound snapping Ashton out of her stupor. She hadn't realized she'd been staring for so long.

'Right, right. Sorry.'

Ashton kneeled down on his right side, grimacing as the stench of blood and body odor assaulted her nose. This guy had definitely been living it rough.

Trying to breathe in through her mouth as much as she could, she grasped his wrist with one hand and pressed against his shoulder with the palm of her other hand.

'This is going to hurt.' she warned, noting with relief that she sounded much more steady.

Slowly, Ashton began rotating the injured arm outwards; as she did so, the man grunted in pain, sucking in short, hissing breaths through clenched teeth. The muscles in his arm were taut and hard as iron. He didn't cry out.

A sickening _pop_ told her that she had been successful, and she released her hold abruptly, wiping her palms on her jeans. Her hands were shaking.

'Better?' she asked softly.

A curt nod.

Ashton licked her lips nervously, scrutinizing his other injuries–mostly minor bruises and cuts that would heal in a few days, at the most. What caught her attention was a raised, discolored area larger than the span of her entire hand, marring the rib cage on his right side.

'Does it hurt to breathe? Yeah, that's what I thought.' she murmured, as he attempted

to inhale and caught himself. 'You've probably got a broken rib–or maybe several. I'll have to get the first-aid kit.'

The expression on the man's face said clearly that he didn't appreciate letting her out of his sight. 'Fine.' he agreed, after some consideration.

'Be right back.' Ashton got to her feet hastily, and staggered to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Leaning against it, she slid down until she was sitting on the cold tile, breathing hard.

For several seconds, she just stared into the glaring light of the ceiling lamp, trying to force her mind out of its paralyzed state.

Should she call the police? The slight pressure against her thigh told her that she still had her phone in her pocket. No–he'd hear her, and then she'd get shot.

_Focus. Focus. Just do what you need to stay alive. Help him. _

After sanitizing her hands with hot water and soap, Ashton emerged from the bathroom, carrying a bulky first-aid kit that she had stored under the sink.

'_Ohmygosh!_' she shrieked, as the kit dropped from her hands and burst open, scattering its contents across the floor. 'Don't _do_ that!'

The man had been waiting for her, standing slightly to one side of the bathroom door–no doubt he had been ensuring that she wasn't going to try and alert the authorities. His blue eyes flickered with the slightest hint of amusement when Ashton panicked, but he didn't bend down to assist her.

Once she'd repacked the kit, she returned to the living room, the man silently dogging her every step. Dropping the first-aid kit unceremoniously, Ashton situated herself comfortably on the floor, while he seated himself on the couch once more.

She tried to concentrate on assessing his wounds, but found her gaze drifting towards the silver appendage. It was a highly unusual prosthetic–it had the exact contours and muscle shape of a normal arm, as well as joints in the fingers, wrist and elbow. This had to be incredibly advanced technology.

'You're staring again.'

'What?' Ashton started, embarrassed at being caught, and abruptly busied herself with digging an instant ice-pack out of the kit. 'Oh, sorry. It's just, um...I've never seen a prosthetic like that.' There was a pause as she kneaded the ice pack with her fingers. 'Is it custom-made?'

His brows met in the middle. '...I don't know.'

'Ah.' She held up the ice pack. 'I have to put this on your ribcage, okay? It's going to burn at first, but it will help with the swelling.'

As Ashton pressed the ice pack firmly against the bruised area, he let out a short, harsh bark and almost doubled over. She forced herself to continue, slightly increasing the pressure. He cried out again, his voice raw and cracked. Sensing that she was pushing him to the limit, Ashton pulled her hand away. 'I know it hurts,' she consoled him, 'but I have to do it for just a little bit longer. Then I'll stop.'

Head bowed in resignation, the man allowed her to go on, cringing when she reapplied the ice pack, but remaining silent until she was finished. _The worst should be over; now there's just the minor injuries to take care of._ _And after that_…Ashton didn't want to think about it just then. Her mind was functioning on routine, like a machine, repeating the procedures she'd been performing for the last five days. There was almost no thinking involved; just doing. Taking a cotton swab and dousing it with antiseptic, Ashton scooted closer in order to reach the injuries on his face. 'This will sting a little bit.'

She brushed aside a piece of his long hair, and gingerly dabbed at a gash on his cheekbone, moving on when the cotton swab was used up. No words were exchanged between the two of them for some time, beyond a murmured apology from Ashton whenever he showed signs of discomfort.

The man obviously wasn't eager to carry on a conversation, and Ashton judged that asking too many questions would endanger her life. So, she quietly cleaned his injuries, bandaging the ones that needed it; all the while, her stomach felt like a clenched fist, her heart like a kick-drum beating on the inside of her chest.

By the time she had finished, her extremities seemed heavy as lead. As she glanced at the clock on her far left, Ashton's entire body trembled with exhaustion. It was four in the morning. She had been running on adrenaline the last twelve hours, and now she was practically sleepwalking.

At least he appeared a little more human, she thought, now that the layer of blood and grime had been wiped away and his wounds had been tended to. His hair was still unruly, that half-crazed, shattered look still in his eyes, but he no longer looked completely vagrant. She'd have to get him some proper clothing...

'Hey.' The man glanced up at her voice, his expression inquisitive. 'I have a jacket for you to wear. I can go get it–' A pause, as she dug her phone out of her pocket. '–and you don't have to follow me. I won't call the police.' She dropped the phone on the floor.

Not waiting for a reply, Ashton turned to go, returning a few moments later with a couple blankets and a large, baggy sweat jacket. She handed him the jacket and placed the blanket by him on the couch, keeping the other one for herself and wrapping it around her as she settled down on the recliner facing him.

Almost immediately, her eyelids began to close. The more she struggled against the fatigue, the more it pulled on her. _No, stay awake. _she thought, dimly, but it was no use–she hadn't slept for almost twenty-four hours. An invisible hand was tugging her downward, she was sinking, further into the darkness…


	4. Chapter 4

April 14, 2014

Waking up was a slow process. Ashton became aware of things in stages:

One, her mouth tasted like barf. She must've forgotten to brush her teeth the night before.

Two, she had a kink in her lower back and neck–it hurt just to shift her position a little bit.

Three, she'd fallen asleep in her day clothes, which was a thing she hadn't done in years. What on earth had happened? It was all a bit fuzzy.

Ashton yawned, thickly. She stretched her arms and legs luxuriously, the kinks in her spine straightening out. Then, she felt the uncomfortable curve of the living room recliner beneath her, the confining folds of the blanket, and blinking away the bleariness, she sat up, brushing hair out of her mouth.

Then, fully opening her eyes, she saw the one person she'd hoped had just been an exceptionally bad nightmare.

The 'mystery man' was sitting in the exact same position he had been the night before: shirtless, the blanket by his side–untouched–and gun in his left hand. He was staring at her with those glassy blue eyes, studying her. Exhaustion was written in every line of his face; dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes.

_Did he sleep _at all_?_ she wondered to herself in disbelief. When she tentatively voiced her question aloud he shook his head and brown, shaggy hair fell past the bridge of his nose.

'That's not good.' Ashton fretted. 'Unless you get some rest, you're going to take a lot longer to heal.' She slid off the recliner. 'Rib still hurting?'

The man dipped his head slightly–the only movement he could make without triggering pain. Ashton stifled another yawn as she spoke.

'I'll have to put ice on it again…that okay?' Another nod, this time more apprehensive. He endured the agonizing process without a murmur, reluctantly swallowing the painkillers that Ashton pressed into his palm.

'Now that that's taken care of–' she began, closing the first aid kit and buckling the clasps, 'I don't know about you, but I'm hungry.'

Getting unsteadily to her feet, Ashton took a couple steps towards the kitchen, but her attention was arrested by a soft, metallic rustling sound. Her gaze slowly shifted to look at her unwanted houseguest, and the gun he was now aiming in her direction. Ashton stiffened, a spike of fear running through her. Would he actually shoot her? There was no one to hear the gunshot, no one to stop him. She closed her eyes, trying to force herself to think logically, to ignore the wild palpitating of her heart. Despite her whole body trembling, Ashton managed to keep her voice steady and calm.

'Look, if it makes you feel safer to point that at me, go ahead; but I honestly don't think you're going to kill me. If you were, I would be dead already. Please, I am just making some coffee.'

Despite feeling somewhat ridiculous that she was risking her life for breakfast, Ashton determinedly turned her face away from the man on her couch, and took one tentative step. No gunshot. Slightly more confident, she covered the remaining distance in a few quick strides, and let out a sigh of pent-up relief when she safely made it into the kitchen. This area was small, but practical; making up for the lack of a dining room, there was a small bar with three stools, facing the living room. Above this, there was a cabinet hanging from the ceiling, which partially obscured her view of anything beyond it. Trying to act as normal as possible, Ashton prepared the coffee–bringing the french press out from its hiding place beside the microwave, spooning the grounds into the french press, heating up the water over the stove. All the while she was keeping tabs on him.

He'd followed her (it was starting to get annoying), and taken a seat on one of the barstools. He was so tall that his forehead reached the underside of the cabinet.

'So,' she began, poking her head into the refrigerator as an excuse not to look at him directly, 'we really didn't have a chance to go over this last night, but I don't have a clue who you are.'

'Neither do I.' He stated this rather frankly.

'What?' Ashton slammed the refrigerator door shut, throwing him an incredulous glance. 'You don't know who you are?'

'I can't remember.' he admitted, his tone bitter. 'My memories only go back a few days.'

'Wow. That...must be difficult for you.' She really couldn't think of anything to say to such a revelation. The refrigerator provided a refuge from the uncomfortable silence once again–only this time, she was actually looking for something to eat. Her gaze landed on a package of ridiculously oversized, store-bought blueberry muffins. Ashton felt her stomach give a plaintive growl. Perfect.

They sat facing each other, a blueberry muffin and a cup of black coffee before each of them. From the way he seemed to be trying to win a staring contest with his mug, Ashton concluded that, at the very least, he couldn't remember what coffee was. She gingerly sipped hers, the bitterness burning her throat on the way down.

He hadn't spoken at all; somehow, that chilled her more. It was the agony of not knowing what was going on behind that emotionless mask of his face. Since she wasn't dead yet, he obviously still needed her for something–but for what? Getting his memories back?

Ashton's heart began to throb. _When do I stop being useful? _The question was stabbing at the forefront of her mind. _No, no–don't think about that now. _

She cleared her throat awkwardly. 'Aren't you going to eat?'

His head snapped upwards to look at her, brow furrowed.

'You are hungry, right?' Ashton prodded. When he didn't answer, she gave a slight sigh of exasperation. 'When was the last time you ate?'

'I don't know.'

Ashton's eyebrows shot up in alarm. 'You're malnourished.' she insisted. 'You need to eat something.'

He was dubious at first, but reluctantly nibbled at the muffin. A small bubble of relief welled up inside her as the man proceeded to slowly, cautiously eat the whole thing. He was almost like a stubborn child–suspicious of anything new and requiring a lot of pushing to get a response. He reacted to normal, everyday things with uncertainty, as though he expected them to blow up in his face.

'So…' She began, fingering the rim of her mug. 'Last night, you said that you needed my help. I can't give you that unless I have some answers.'

A break in the expressionless veneer; a brief, grim smile, as if he found her request amusing, but wasn't going to take her seriously. Ashton's chest was tight, like an invisible rope had suddenly contracted around it.

'Fine.' he agreed. There was a brief pause as he collected his thoughts.

'Like I said'–his tone indicated that he resented having to explain it again–'I don't know who I am. I have no memory of anything, apart from...' he clammed up for a moment, clearly not wanting to reveal something and frustrated that he couldn't find the right words. So, he switched gears. 'You know what it's like to be normal. To be around...people.'

Ashton mouthed a silent _oh _as realization dawned on her. The tension around her chest began to ease. 'You need me to teach you how to be...normal.' she said slowly, her eyebrows lifting. 'And get your memories back.'

He nodded, waiting to see if she would refuse.

Ashton breathed an uneasy sigh. The instructing she could do. The memories? Not so much. 'I'll do my best, but I can't promise that you'll have your memories back.' she explained, figuring that honesty was the best policy.

It was the wrong thing to say.

His hand shot out and grabbed her throat–she was jerked forward, bashing her head against the edge of the cabinet. She couldn't see for a moment; agony exploded inside her skull, and everything was a blur of black and white. Trying to gasp, Ashton let out a strangled gurgle when no air was let through–she was certain he was crushing her windpipe. A strange, mechanical _whirr_ rang in her ears.

'You...are not leaving...until I _remember_.' Every word shook with desperate fury; it radiated through her like a shockwave. His grip tightened, metal fingers biting into her skin–she couldn't breathe at all now–her neck felt like it was about to snap.

Then, just when she thought she would pass out, he relinquished his grip, shoving her

slightly so that she overbalanced and crashed to the floor.

She laid on the cold tile for several seconds, gagging as breath returned slowly to her starved lungs, terrified to move, every bone in her body throbbing. Soon, the frantic gasps turned into sobs, and soon she was choking all over again in the effort to keep quiet. Heavy, booted footsteps came close to her, and she cringed–but then, they receded, leaving her alone.

After listening for a few seconds, Ashton sat up, gingerly massaging her windpipe. She was still shaking convulsively, tear streaks were tracing down her cheeks and her nose was congested from crying. Taking a deep breath to quell the hyperventilating, she staggered to her feet, glancing frantically back and forth.

Her neck throbbed.

Ashton gently probed the sore area with her fingers again, flinching. Her throat was already bruising; it hurt to breathe or swallow, and the skin felt tightly stretched over her windpipe. If she didn't act quickly, the swelling would cut off her air supply, and she would suffocate. She stepped shakily towards the freezer, pulling it open and taking out an ice-pack. Using a dishtowel, Ashton tied the ice-pack around her neck, and closed her eyes against the stinging.

Where was he? Ashton tensed up, her insides twisting into knots. Oh, wait–there. Sitting in the living room, eerily lucid and calm, as though he hadn't tried to strangle her. His reaction had been so sudden…_ Is he schizophrenic?_ Ashton wondered dazedly. That would explain his erratic behavior and the sudden, unpredictable mood swings–from murderous to silent and brooding within moments.

Despair stabbed at her gut, bringing with it a numbing sense of helplessness. She couldn't do this. She couldn't do anything. Her knees buckled under her, and she grasped the counter tightly to avoid falling over. All she wanted to do was give up, curl up on the kitchen floor again and sleep until everything was over…or until he shot her, whichever came first.

_You are not leaving until I remember. _His eyes; so tortured, so hopeless, filled with hate. Whoever had done that to him, removed any trace of who he used to be–she could only wonder. Probing for his memories could make it worse, or prove fatal if she didn't succeed.

The tiny bubble of relief had burst, leaving her cold inside. How stupid she'd been to forget that he could kill her so easily.


	5. Chapter 5

'Let's start with what you do remember. That shouldn't take too long, right?'

The man's face flickered uneasily, his stare burning with disapproval.

Ashton leaned further into the comforting curves of the recliner chair. 'You asked for my help. For that, I need yours.' Her voice rasped from her bruised throat like she was gargling sand. 'Let's start at the beginning. Do you have a name?'

His lips thinned, and he stared at something beyond her, concentrating. She was treading thin ice–he could be trying to recall something, or this was just a precursor to another violent outburst. It was impossible to tell. 'I–I'm not sure.' he said, slowly.

'Okay.' she conceded, biting her lip. 'We'll leave that for now. Um...' This was harder than she'd imagined. 'Are there any people you remember? Names, faces, that sort of thing?'

'Yes.'

'Who?'

'I don't know.' Frustration edged his voice.

'So you remember them, but you don't know who they are?'

'Yes.'

She was running out of questions. 'Okay…what did they look like?'

'One man was older. More lined.' He gestured to his own face. 'With…lighter hair. The other–' He broke off a moment. 'Tall. Narrow. And his hair was dark.'

'Hm. Any others?' He hesitated, and then shook his head. She moved on. 'What was your relationship to them–family, friend…?'

He had to think about that one. 'None of those.'

'Then what?' She spread her hands expressively. 'I'm really not seeing any other options.'

'They…they weren't any of those.' Why was he repeating? Something clicked in her mind–she was on to something. Then, he spoke again:

'They didn't want me to remember.'

Ashton's brows narrowed, eyes startled and searching. She licked her lips nervously. 'These people…did they hurt you?' Each word was a step on a tightrope.

The man half-opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but stopped. A greater, stronger impulse–fear–warned him not to go any further. He couldn't tell her what they did to him. Not yet. He clamped his jaws shut, an involuntary tremor shaking his body.

So close, and yet so far! Ashton felt a stab of disappointment. She shut her eyes and rubbed them wearily with the heels of her palms. 'How about the past few days?' she suggested, opening her eyes. 'You said you remembered back at least that far. What happened?'

Reading his expression, she judged that yes, he knew all too well what she meant, but wasn't too inclined to share. She spread her hands apologetically. 'Look, we're both stuck until I have some more information.'

The muscles in his neck grew taut, his features reverting to their impassive state. It was like a reflex–trying to cover up what he was really thinking. For Ashton, it meant agonized seconds of waiting, wondering whether he was going to say something or lash out. She shifted in her seat nervously. On her right, the flat-screen tv flickered to life with a cacophony of images and garbled audio. She nearly jumped out of her seat with a small yelp. The man reacted as though he'd been electrocuted, bolting to his feet; once again, the gun was in his hand, and his gaze flicked wildly from her to the screen.

'No, no–wait–stop!' Ashton blurted, getting to her feet and gesturing frantically. 'Don't shoot, _please_.' She must've bumped the remote somehow; now it was just a matter of finding it before he damaged anything.

'It's just the television. It's not going to…hurt you.' As ridiculous as it sounded, the words seemed to reassure him, at least slightly. 'Just let me turn it off–' Ashton groped frantically around the recliner, thinking that the remote was trapped underneath the cushion. All the while, obnoxious, non-stop chatter poured into the room. She wasn't really processing any of it.

After several fruitless seconds, Ashton gave up searching for it. Instead, she scooted over and fingered along the side of the TV for the 'off' button.

'Wait.' The command froze her to the spot. She peered at him out of her peripheral vision; he'd lowered the weapon and was now glaring at the screen.

"It has been confirmed that Captain America is out of surgery and well on his way to recovery. After being raced to the hospital yesterday after the disaster that is popularly being named 'the Fall of the Triskelion', citizens across the nation waited with baited breath to hear of the fate of America's beloved hero…"

'What is it?' Ashton let her hand fall to her side.

Slowly, he crouched down until his head was level with hers, watching intently. The screen, now focused on the deadpan face of the newscaster, shifted as the camera panned to make room for a small image of Steve Rogers.

The man tapped the image with one finger, the _ping _of metal against glass startling her.

'I knew him.'

Three words. That was all. He was so resolute, but uncertain at the same time, as though he was trying to convince himself more than her. Then, he repeated the phrase with a little more force, turning his dark, sad eyes to gaze at her listlessly.

'I _knew_ him.' The confusion and suffering in his words was unmistakable.

It wasn't because he didn't know whether she'd heard it the first time, Ashton realized, but because he was looking for confirmation, waiting to see if she was going to prove him wrong. She couldn't do either.

'Wait. Is this one of the people you mentioned earlier?'

The slightest twitch of his head. _No_.

'Um...' she trailed off, letting out a breath she'd been holding for some time. 'That's a start, at least.'

The newcast cut to a commercial. Ashton reached over and pushed the power button, silence falling harsh and abrupt as the screen blinked off. He didn't seem to notice. Then, his lips barely moving, he repeated the three words to himself. _I knew him. _It was more than a memory; it was an obsession.

Ashton cautiously stood up, an unpleasant tingle surging through her feet; she'd been kneeling for so long that they'd started to go numb. He still acted as though she wasn't there. Now that he wasn't trying to kill her, he was pretty pathetic. His entire body had gone limp, as if there was no willpower left inside to hold it up, his mouth slack and eyes vacant.

_Is he having a seizure? _Ashton bent over and wiggled her fingers in front of his face. 'Hello? You still with me?'

His face twitched, and he was blinking rapidly, brow furrowed as though he'd just noticed his surroundings. Then, in a moment, he was on his feet, and Ashton was staggering backward, alarmed. She stumbled and fell onto the recliner.

'That man. Who is he?' he demanded. Ashton curled up, pulling her knees to her chest as her mind tried to formulate a coherent answer. She didn't bother looking at him; she knew the gun was aimed at her head. Again.

'He's Captain America. I mean, he's called Steve Rogers–'

'Those are just _names_.' he snarled, cutting her off. '_Who _is he? Why do I remember him?'

'I have no idea–but look. We'll find out. I promise.' She assured him, sitting up straighter and catching his eye. 'Whatever happened to you, there is no quick fix.' Her voice was firm, yet compassionate. 'Finding your memories could take a long time, and pointing your gun at me _won't_ help. Okay?'

It was only after he lowered the weapon that Ashton realized that her forehead was cold with sweat. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand as he sank to the couch across from her, drained from his outburst.

'I do have something that could help.' Ashton offered, after mulling it over. 'I don't know too much about Captain America myself, but my brother was a bit of a nerd–'

'A what?' His face clouded with confusion.

_Right. No memories, and apparently, no knowledge of modern lingo. _'A nerd is someone who's really interested in a particular person or event. Knows a lot about it, that sort of thing.' she explained. 'In this case, my brother would collect magazine or newspaper articles that were about Captain America, most of which I still have.' She smiled reminiscently, as an old sadness mingled with the sweetness of the memory.

'Do you want to go through them now, or wait a little bit?' Ashton inquired, checking herself as her mind began to wander. 'I don't want to…overwhelm you.'

'Yes. Now.' he said. Ashton knitted her brow.

'You're sure?'

'Yes.' He firmed his jaw resolutely. 'I need to know.'

Ashton stood up, dusting off her jeans. 'It's this way.' she told him, gesturing towards the hall leading away from the living room.

She hadn't been in this room for so long. Standing in front of the door, Ashton was aware that the man was just behind her, uncomfortably close. He clearly had no concept of personal space, as he was practically breathing down her neck while she wrestled with the doorknob. _Ugh, he smells. If he's staying here long-term, he's _got _to take a shower. _The knob was stiff from disuse, but finally turned, and the door creaked open on rusty hinges. A wave of stale air hit them both in the face as they stepped into the darkened room.

'Let me open the curtains.' Ashton coughed, pinching her nose shut as she made her way over to the right side of the room and pulled aside the drapes. Afternoon light flooded into the small chamber, illuminating dust particles that floated in a misty haze.

Nothing in here had been touched for some time. The queen bed just below the window was neatly made, its navy blue comforter visible through a grey sheen. Directly to the left of the bed, the in-wall closet was open, revealing rows of clothing all systematically arranged and on hangers. A tall, maple-wood dresser pressed up against the same wall as the door, its top covered with framed photographs and other mementos. Stacked up against the wall adjoining the door, strangely out of place, were several cardboard boxes, with _FRAGILE _scribbled on all sides with a black permanent marker.

Ashton stepped away from the window, dust erupting in little clouds at her feet. Just being in here again hurt physically; gazing around at the abandoned mess of furniture and keepsakes was like ripping scabs off of old wounds. She scrubbed at her eyes–no, she couldn't start crying. She had a promise to keep.

'I think the magazines are in there.' Ashton said, gesturing to the heap of cardboard boxes. She grabbed one from the top of the stack and, surprised by the weight, nearly dropped it. A plume of dust exploded straight into her face as it hit the floor, and she coughed violently, blinking as her eyes began to sting.

In a moment, he was kneeling down next to her, eagerly lifting the lid and tossing it aside. His touch was strangely gentle as he lifted a thick periodical from the top of the stack and flipped it open. _The Howling Commandos: A History of World War II's Greatest Heroes _read the article's title. Behind the splashy red text was a black-and-white photo blown up to fill the entire page. She watched as his eyes flicked back and forth, skimming the text, his forehead puckering.

The words meant nothing to him. The names–_Jim Morita, Montgomery Falsworth, Gabriel Jones–_those were important. He just didn't know why. He'd never known these men…he was a soldier, he wasn't supposed to be personally or emotionally involved with _anyone_.

If this was true–and he wasn't certain what to believe at this point–why did the names bring to his mind vague, whispery notions of lined, battle-worn faces, weary but smiling, coarse, good-natured banter, the smells of dirt and alcohol and companionship? All these things he tried to grasp, but they fled before he could fully comprehend what they meant. Over and over again, he re-read the names, but whatever memory had been stored inside them was lost.

James Buchanan Barnes, alias 'Bucky'–

_The man on the bridge. He was beaten and bruised, dripping sweat and blood. And he refused to die. 'You know me.' He croaked, staggering forward. The glass bubble shook beneath their feet. _

I knew him–_pain, knuckles dragging across his face, the stun of electricity. The soldier couldn't remember…it wasn't allowed…_

'_NO I DON'T!' The words came out as an indistinguishable scream; the man collapsed, thrown backwards when the soldier rammed into him. _

'_Bucky…' The tone was pleading. 'You've known me your whole life.'_

_The words confused him. He had no life…did he? The confusion lasted only long enough for the man to get to his feet before a metal fist smashed across his face. _

_He wouldn't shut up. The man was on his feet _again_, eyes alight with determination._

'_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes–'_

He snapped out of the memory, disoriented. It took a few seconds for the room to come into focus–

All of a sudden, the soldier was aware of a burning sensation in his gut; not hunger or thirst. This was different; sharp, bitter, churning. And it felt like it was traveling upwards. An involuntary gasp, a hand moving to touch the sore area–he turned his head and met Ashton's eyes, trying to convert without words what he felt.

'Your stomach's hurting?'

He nodded; blood drained from his face, making him dizzy. The nausea increased; he stiffened, swallowed, and acid scorched his throat.

'Do you feel like you're going to throw up?'

Another nod. Then, Ashton was pulling him to his feet, guiding him out of the room. He was breathing heavily through his mouth, and the floor shook beneath his feet.

'Just hold on–' She kicked the bathroom door open, still grasping his right arm firmly.

He was kneeling over, clutching his stomach, and his insides were thrusting themselves upward, spewing out in a flood of acid and fire.

—

Ashton kept a hand on the small of his back as he continued to retch horribly into the toilet. Inwardly, she was trying to think of a reason for this response. He'd barely eaten anything–most of what was coming up had to be stomach acid. Maybe he was allergic? If he was, then he wouldn't remember. But it was unlikely. Most allergies or intolerances, unless they were incredibly severe, didn't initiate this kind of reaction. And judging by his physique alone, he didn't appear to be suffering from celiac disease.

He sat up, trembling, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His expression was a mix of confusion and disgust.

'Feel any better?' she asked gently. He bobbed his head, sagging wearily against the bathroom wall. _He's probably dehydrated_. Ashton realized.

'Be right back.' she told him, stepping out of the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returned with a glass of water, which he gulped down without pausing for breath. She set the glass on the countertop once he'd finished.

'If you're feeling up to moving, you should probably come out to the living room and rest for a while.'

His eyebrows crinkled in that lost-puppy sort of way, but he allowed her to help him out to the living room, where he curled up on the couch, barefoot and shivering.

'My name is…Bucky.' His throat still stung; the words were faint, hoarse. Ashton looked up, hopeful.

'You remembered something!'

'No. He called me that.'

'He…you mean Steve Rogers?' She squinted at him, one eyebrow raised.

A dull, exhausted nod.

'Is that what you want me to call you?' A smile tugged at her lips. 'Bucky?'

'Yes…please.' He frowned. 'It _is_ my name, isn't it?' Ashton shrugged.

'It's your memories, not mine. But it does sound more like a nickname than a full name. Was there anything else–'

'James Buchanan Barnes.' He sounded out every word clearly. There was a pause. 'That's my full name.'

'But–' The words died on Ashton's lips. _That's impossible. He died over seventy years ago! _She closed her eyes, rubbed them. She had to be careful about expressing her doubts too baldly. 'Bucky…like the Howling Commando Bucky? The one who–' _died, _she almost said– 'was Captain America's sidekick?'

'I don't know.' Bucky leaned his head back, his energy spent.

_Should have seen that coming. _Ashton thought, grimly.

The next couple of hours were spent in almost complete silence. Despite Ashton's best attempts to seem unobtrusive and unsuspicious, Bucky never fell asleep. He just lay flattened against the couch, looking like death warmed over and refusing to let her out of his sight. His sidearm was placed within easy reach.

With a little coaxing, she managed to get him to drink two more full glasses of water–not nearly enough to replenish what he'd lost over the past few days, but it was _something_. She then resumed her place on the recliner across from him, and tried to occupy her mind.

Eventually, the setting sun began to leak through the windows, turning everything a pumpkiny-orange. With a start, Ashton realized that it was almost evening again–and that she was desperately hungry.

'Hey. I know you're probably not interested in food right now, but I'm famished. Do you mind if I get something to eat?' She pointed towards the kitchen. 'I won't leave the house.'

He hesitated for a moment, then bobbed his head.

A glass of milk and some nuts in either hand, Ashton sat down on one of the barstools where she could watch him and eat at the same time. A glance at the oven clock told her it was nearly six in the evening–hardly fourteen hours since she'd been flung onto this crazy roller coaster ride. The thought nearly made her laugh, but she stopped herself. No, no. It was hysterical, but it wasn't funny. This man, whoever he claimed to be, couldn't possibly be Bucky Barnes. The hollow, tortured creature on her couch was the barest echo of the warm, smiling face she'd always pictured when Riley would fanboy over the Howling Commandos and talk about them at length.

And yet…(could it be?)

She'd finished eating; slowly, keeping herself in his line of vision, Ashton made her way back out to the living room and picked up the Howling Commandos article that she'd left on the coffee table. She held up the thin fragile piece of paper and squinted one eye, comparing the two.

It was the same face.

No doubt about it–the one in the article was a little younger, more carefree, but it was the same person. 'Bucky' had noticed what she was doing, and knitted his brows in curiosity and apprehension. Ashton set the article down quickly, swallowing her disbelief and shock for a later time. Pelting him with questions he most likely couldn't answer would only make the situation worse.

He didn't eat at all for the rest of the night; he did, however, drain another glass of water, so his body was still craving hydration and nutrients–the latter of which his body wasn't accepting. The paradox of starvation.

By eight o'clock, Ashton knew that she wasn't going to be even remotely drowsy for several hours, but Bucky (she wasn't sure she liked calling him that) needed all the rest he could get. Riley's room was in no condition for house guests, so a couple blankets and a pillow on the couch compensated.

'Promise me you'll try and get some sleep this time, okay?' Ashton prodded, unfolding the blankets. He didn't respond, but dubiety twitched his features.

'There.' Ashton stood back, admiring her handiwork. 'That should do until…' she shrugged. 'Until I figure something else out. You think you'll be comfortable?'

He wasn't certain was 'comfortable' meant, so he just dipped his head. She smiled and explained that she'd be right around the corner if he needed anything, and then stepped carefully away. He watched go, feeling as though he should say something, to somehow show that he appreciated what she was doing…

But the words would not come; he stood, silent in the darkness, afraid to lie alone until daylight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, first of all, I'm really sorry for not updating as regularly as I should. I've been really busy and sick lately, but I have been working on this story like crazy! I have so many ideas and I can't wait to to share them in a more coherent form. Stay tuned! I'll be gone for a week and a half in February, so I hope to have Chapter 7 up before then and Chapter 8 finished sometime either before March or early that month. :) Thanks! **

**––––––––**

April 15, 2014, 6:13 AM

She wasn't sure what woke her up. It could have been the sunlight, a noise, anything, but what got her out of bed was something totally different and altogether weird. When Ashton rolled over groggily to see the man–Bucky–sitting across the room, the sound that came out of her mouth was embarrassingly loud and high -pitched. Regretting the moment she'd decided to put on those ratty pajamas instead of just wearing her regular clothes to bed, Ashton self -consciously pulled the covers up to her nose. It took several awkward seconds for her brain to get in gear.  
>'How long have you been in here?'<br>He thought about it. 'A few hours.'  
><em>Right. Because that's not at all creepy. <em>'Did you sleep at all?'  
>Bucky responded with a shake of his head. He looked more exhausted than before; the flesh below his eyes was sunken and purply- brown, matching the disfiguration on his ribcage. Ashton chewed her lip. Not sleeping, not eating, schizophrenic–this guy was a first- class mess. Collecting her thoughts, she continued to ask him a few basic questions about his injuries: amazingly, most of his bruises had already healed; however, his right shoulder was still stiff, and his rib was throbbing.<br>'Hm. Well, why don't you go out so I can get dressed, and I'll see what I can do.'  
>He complied, closing the door behind him–though she guessed correctly that he would keep a silent vigil right outside. Muttering to herself, Ashton changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a t- shirt, and then quickly ran a brush through her hair. The bristles caught painfully on a stubborn snarl, and for a brief, stricken moment, she started at herself in the vanity mirror. A heavy sigh was breathed into the silence.<br>'I have no idea what I'm doing.' she confessed to the empty room.

April 15, 2014, 9:45 AM

'Okay. Now that you've kinda made yourself at home, there's just a few things I need you to cooperate with. You know, my house, my rules kind of thing.' Bucky tilted his head a fraction, eyes narrowing. Ashton waited a few seconds to see if he would react negatively, and then plunged in. 'First things first: hygiene. You probably haven't noticed, but you really need to wash up. Like, really need to.' She wrinkled her nose to emphasize her point.  
>No response. Oh, that's right. He probably didn't remember <em>how<em>.  
>'Do you want me to do it for you?' she asked, seriously. Being a nurse, she'd helped bathe several people–male and female–who were injured or otherwise incapable of doing it themselves. No big deal. To her surprise, however, he shook his head.<br>'Okay, then. I'll just show you the basics. You can take it from there.'

The bathroom was small in any case, but with two people, especially a tall one with broad shoulders, it was positively cramped.  
>'It's easy. Shampoo goes in first, then you scrub really hard.' Ashton demonstrated by rubbing her own dry scalp with her fingertips. 'And then you rinse. Same with the conditioner–' she pointed it out. 'Except you wait a few minutes before rinsing. Got it?' She looked up at him hopefully.<br>A solemn nod. With a relieved smile, Ashton turned to go. Then, the too -familiar sensation of a muzzle being pressed into her spine froze her in place.  
>'You're not leaving.'<br>_You have _got _to be kidding me_. Slowly, her hands lifted. 'I–I'm not–why do you–' she spluttered, turning to face him. He stared at her levelly, keeping the gun a few inches away from poking into her skin. 'I can't call the police! You took my phone!' Ashton pointed out miserably. He didn't answer, but gently prodded her with his sidearm. She got the message, and wisely shut up, fuming at her own spinelessness.

The sensation of ice cold water pouring across his scalp and down his chest and spine was sudden, painful. He inhaled sharply as unhealed wounds began to burn.  
>'Turn the knob to the left.' Ashton told him, curled up in the far corner of the bathroom. He did as she said, and gradually, the water heated to a comfortable temperature. Slowly, awkwardly, he followed her instructions. The entire experience was strange to him, but it was refreshing to scrub several days worth of sweat and grime off his skin.<br>When he stepped out of the glass cage, the cold air slapped him in the face, making his skin tingle. Quickly, he dressed himself in the clothing Ashton had provided (they had apparently belonged to someone named Riley). The T -shirt was tightly stretched over his broad shoulders, the hem just barely reaching the waist of his jeans. It wasn't a perfect fit, but he was used to the stiffness and leathery feel of tactical gear, and did not complain. As he stood, water dripped from his hair and trickled down his spine.  
>Ashton got to her feet and looked him over, her gaze a mix of amusement and thoughtfulness. "I'll have to get you some clothes that fit." Her eyes drifted back to his hair; a soggy, tangled mop plastered against his skull. Again, the pensive, critical eye.<br>"Why don't you come out and I'll brush your hair?" she suggested.

He was sitting placidly on the couch when she approached him, a round handled _thing _in her hand, the end of which was covered in pointed bristles. Immediately, he felt his muscles begin to seize up, pulse increasing. The taste of salt covering his tongue.  
><em>No, don't move. Stay still. It will all be over soon–<br>_She noticed his unease. "It's a hairbrush, Bucky. Nothing to worry about. See?" She ran it through her own auburn locks a few times. "It doesn't hurt." A hopeful smile tugged at her lips.  
>With a stab of regret, he realized that he'd left the gun in the bathroom. But it didn't matter. He was still several times stronger and faster than she. Anything she attempted that was remotely suspicious could be quickly terminated. <em>(They don't like it when you struggle. Stay still, don't breathe, don't think)<br>_She had already sat down next to him, hairbrush at the ready. When she first tried to use it, he flinched inadvertently, jerking his face away. Surprise and concern flashed across her features. It happened the second time she moved the brush near his face: an uncontrollable twitch in anticipation of pain. She put it down and told him, "I'll be as gentle as I can, okay? I don't want to hurt you."  
>He forced himself to stay still as the bristles worked their way across his scalp, trying to swallow down the irrational, pointless panic that lit up his nerves.<br>"You're doing good." she murmured in his ear. Good? What was 'good'? _(It was when he didn't resist. Let them cause him pain.)  
><em>_Stop. _He wasn't sure if he'd said it out loud, or just mouthed it. Her fingers interlaced as she tried to work out a stubborn tangle, sending twinges pricking up his skin. The sensation of touch alone was enough to make him expect agony.  
>"<em>Stop.<em>" He forced the word out through clenched jaws. His hand shot up, grabbed her wrist and twisted it downwards, forcing the brush out of her hands. He read her expression: pain–and _disappointment_.  
>"I'm sorry. I didn't realize–" Her voice was taut; she winced as her wrist ached in its unusual position.<br>"Can...can you let go?"

"Let's go over what we know so far. As of yesterday, you know three people: Steve Rogers, and two other anonymous persons who apparently didn't want you to get your memories back." Ashton scribbled on the sheet of paper before her. Bucky tilted his head, watching but remaining silent from his seat on the couch.  
>After he'd nearly broken her wrist, she'd quietly suggested that they do something else, and then departed to get a pen and paper. There was no reprimand, no scorn. Just silent acceptance.<br>"And we think–we _think_–that you could be James Barnes, which explains why you recognized Steve." She drew a line connecting the two names, and then paused, tapping the pen against her palm. "Does that sound about right?"  
>He gave the obligatory nod. Ashton pursed her lips thoughtfully and sighed.<br>"The last few days, before you came here, are important. What happened during that time?"  
>"I had a mission." The words were quiet, almost timid, and followed by silence. "What was it?" she prompted.<br>His voice suddenly reverted to a dull monotone–flat and chilling. "A level six target. Captain Rogers, Steven. Confirmed kill in ten hours."  
>She was aware that her mouth had fallen slack, and shut it immediately. Horror trickled down her spine like a melting ice cube. "W- who gave you this mission? The same people who didn't want you to remember Steve?"<br>As he bobbed his head, a small, incredulous moan escaped her lips. "That's...that's just sick!" she spluttered. 'It's–" There weren't words to describe the revulsion she felt. Winding a lock of hair around her fingers, she tugged on it, hard. Pieces were beginning to fall into place.  
><em>(HYDRA took over SHIELD.)<br>__(The helicarriers.)  
><em>_(Steve Rogers in the hospital. Three bullet wounds and a knife stab.)  
><em>_(Confirmed kill in ten hours–)  
><em>"You work for HYDRA."  
>Blue eyes flashed upward, bright with fear and alarm. That was all the confirmation she needed. Leaning in closer, she continued, "You couldn't remember your real name. What did...HYDRA–" she said the word delicately–"call you?"<br>Panic rippled across his face, but he managed to answer in a level tone: "Codename: Winter Soldier."  
>The title meant nothing to her; at least, not at the moment. Pen scratched against paper as she wrote the phrase down. With all of SHIELDHYDRA's secrets having been released onto the internet, it would be easy to research it on Wikileaks or something. But she had one more question.  
>"You failed your mission, right? Captain Rogers is still alive." This didn't surprise him, or perhaps he just concealed it well. "So...you're on the run."<br>"Yes."  
>Ashton exhaled, gazing blankly at the carpet. "Okay. Right." she muttered. <em>This can't be happening to me.<br>_"You're upset." he observed. Her head snapped upwards.  
>"What? Oh, no. I'm not upset. Just a little overwhelmed, that's all." She managed a reassuring smile. He did not return it. "It's a lot to take in." she admitted. "There's an assassin on the lam who's decided to take up permanent residence in my house. Doesn't happen every day."<br>By the slight wrinkle in his forehead, he hadn't quite grasped what she said, but, as was per usual, didn't question it.  
>"Listen. I need some time to think this over. Is that okay with you?"<br>Unsure of how else to respond, he nodded.

Apparently, her method of thinking over things involved cleaning. He found her in the room that had been her brother's; she was on her hands and knees, hair pulled back with a bright aquamarine kerchief. A few stray hairs found their way into her face; they floated through the air lazily every time she blew at them. Her hands tightly grasped a dust cloth, swiping back and forth across the paneled floor, every stroke revealing a burnished, glowing surface.  
>When she noticed him standing in the doorway, she straightened up. "You can come in."<br>Not that he required permission.  
>"Just trying to clean this place up." she explained as he carefully stepped closer. "I haven't touched it since..." There was a pause as she chewed her lip. "Well, it doesn't matter."<br>"Since when?"  
>She pursed her lips, wondering how to explain it to someone who probably wouldn't understand. Getting to her feet, she draped the dust cloth over her shoulder, and gestured to the dresser on the far side of the room. "That photo over there–"<br>He picked it out amongst the dust -covered memorabilia; it was the only thing that was clean. Two men, clad in battle fatigues, concentrated on something off- camera as sandy hills rolled and cavorted behind them. The sky was cloudless and pristine. The first man was of African -American descent, with a wide, flat nose and protruding eyes; the other was shorter, pale, with curly brownish-red hair. Both had a sort of jetpack strapped on. He thought he recognized one of them. _(the dark man with the wings; he hadn't been one of the main targets. But he'd been in the way–)  
><em>"The kid on the left was my brother. They took that picture just before he left on his last assignment." Her voice was hushed, reverent. "He got shot out of the sky. There was hardly anything left." He glanced at her out of his peripheral vision; she was biting her lip, eyes downcast. "After the funeral–I don't know. I guess it hurt too much to believe he was gone. So, I put all of his stuff in here, tried to make it look like he'd never left. Couldn't fool myself, though."  
>Neither of them spoke for several minutes.<br>Then, her expression softened, and she shrugged her shoulders lightly, as though putting the matter behind her. "Now that you're here, I figured I should clean it out, so you don't have to sleep on the couch again." She bent down to continue her labor, not pressuring him to help. No, she was all too aware that the situation could turn sour at any moment–and she'd find herself at gunpoint, or worse, being strangled. Eventually, she found herself reminiscing about her family, which served both to break up the oppressive silence, and hopefully, make him more comfortable around her.  
>"Riley was seven years older than me. I also have a sister, Vickie, who's four years younger. We're..." she chose her words carefully, "not as close as we used to be. Riley's death changed us a lot. It takes a lot to get back on your feet after tragedy, and when we did, our paths took us separate ways.<br>"Vickie found comfort in distraction. I found comfort in helping people. That's my drive–healing, preventing death. So people don't have to go through the loss I did. It took nine years of study and internship, but that's where I am now and I'm satisfied." _Of course, who knows how long that's going to last now.  
><em>He sat down on the bed, the mattress springs creaking from disuse. She couldn't read him: whether he was simply bored, or puzzled as to why this stranger kept spilling her life story. After all, it wasn't like he could relate. He couldn't remember any of his family; it was even more unlikely that any of them were still alive. Who knew if he even had the capacity to care.  
>"The three of us would do such goofy things when we were kids. We had our imaginary adventures, of course. We'd pretend we were secret agents, you know, with messages written in invisible ink and everything. We'd put on oversized coats and spy on the neighbors. Or, we'd be half- human, half -animal hybrids with special powers–don't ask, it was all Riley's idea. I was always part cat, and Vickie would draw whiskers on my face and color my nose black with marker. And Vickie liked lizards, so we gave her a tail made out of rope and a headband with a paper fringe taped on." The recollections played themselves out before her eyes as she spoke, and a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. Nostalgia was like a burning vanilla sugar candle: warm and sweet. "Yeah, we had fun."<br>She glanced up at him. "Am I making you uncomfortable? I kinda just threw all this at you, sorry. I don't get to talk to people that often, so when I do, it all just kinda comes out." she laughed. He shook his head.  
>"It's fine."<p>

He wished she wouldn't stop. Whenever she spoke about her family, it was as though an inner light had suddenly clicked on inside her; she looked _different_. She glowed. He couldn't put his finger on it, or find the words to describe, but her entire face, her words, the way she moved her hands as she talked, all echoed of something nameless and beautiful. Something that he had not felt for a very, very long time.  
>He trailed her for the remainder of the day, as she walked through the various steps of turning the abandoned bedroom into a livable area. Occasionally, she'd open up and tell him more tidbits about her past, which mildly intrigued him but caused more confusion than curiosity. If these stories were a means to an end, he'd no idea what the end could be. But he had no objection, and maintained a characteristic muteness.<br>That night, sandwiched between the mattress and several layers of new, freshly-laundered sheets, the smell of chemical cleaner stinging his nostrils, he stared, wide-eyed, into the dark. He tossed and turned, but sleep eluded him, leaving his mind free to wander. He sensed the too-familiar paranoia creeping up his veins, sharp and icy-cold, as he considered what would happen if…  
>If <em>They <em>found him.  
>A moment passed where his heart ceased to beat. (–<em>forget forget forget don't think about it forget–)<br>_But he couldn't stop; once he'd latched onto that thought, it was ever-present, taunting. Fatigue began to drag his eyelids shut, troubled thoughts still scratching at the edges of his consciousness.

**Up next: NIGHTMARES AND FLUFF/ANGST :3 **


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